Starbound Pollution
by Screaming Faeries
Summary: But the freedom was locked away, viewable only behind barbed wire. Fred/George. Mild. UPDATED, NO TYPOS :D


_"Do you believe, in the day you were born, tell me do you believe?_

_Do you know, that every day's the first of the rest of your life?_

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_**A.N****: UPDATED. **

**Please look at this, it's the promotional image for this fic I took in Ulrome this weekend. I spent absoloutely ages trying to find the right image ^^ **http:// ginger-biscuits . deviantart . com / art / Freedom-162709212

**Obviously delete the spaces :) **

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"We shouldn't have to hide," he said to me. His voice was quiet, barely a whisper, but I heard it. "We shouldn't."

Locked in the isolation of Ginny's undersized wardrobe we lingered, splayed in the tiny space, clinging to each other for all we were worth. We needed space, we needed....well, Ginny was the only person in our family who had a wardrobe, apart from Mum and Dad. When mum was buying furnature she said that we were on a tight budget, and boys could make do with laundry boxes.

And we couldn't exactly hide in a laundry box.

"Fred," I murmured, begging for an explanation. His fingers cascaded clumsily over my face, rubbing away the tears that threatened to fall from my eyes. I couldn't see him well. The darkness was prominent. It was my idea to find solace in a closet, when Fred had kissed me in our bedroom over the many detailed plans to money-making, all I could feel was fear of being caught. Not that we hadn't done it a hundred times before, but we'd always been _alone_.

"We shouldn't have to hide, George," he repeated, his breath tickling my cheek. My lip quivered. A bang echoed from the floor above, earning a gasp from the both of us. A shriek that could only belong to Ron, Hermione's angry voice, and the hiss and howl of her ginger cat, Crookshanks. The air I was holding in my chest deserted my lungs gratefully.

My hand was pressed against Fred's chest. Fighting between shoving him away and pulling him closer. Something to hold, someone to keep? Tear those wretched hands away from my face and shove my wand against his stomach threateningly, and end all of this immediately? The same battle I played with myself everytime Fred and I were mere inches away from each other. My forefinger looped into a loose thread in the knitted Christmas jumper Fred was wearing. It was identical to mine, except mine had a 'G' instead of an 'F' featured across the chest.

"You know it too," he continued, oblivious to my ignorance. "Say it, George."

"We shouldn't have to hide," I muttered softly. "But..."

"It's okay, Georgie," I winced at the ridiculously childish pet name Fred used. "Let gay men be gay men. Let black men marry white women. Let Muslims marry Catholics, Jews marry Protestants. Let twins be twins..." his mouth was close to my ear, his words driving my muddled mind into frenzy, my insides melting to water. He pressed his lips against the skin below my ear, and my eyes blurred, my stomach somersaulting in my belly. "You're always nervous, George."

"They say it's wrong, Fred," I replied quietly. He leaned back on his ankles and I heard him rustling his pockets for his wand.

"_Lumos_. Look at me George." The dim light wasn't strong; it only just exposed Fred's facial features. My eyes flickered over his gentle smile, his eyes, his ginger hair falling into his brow. My smile, my eyes, my hair. "What do you see?"

"My brother. My _twin_ brother. A mirror," I whispered. "That's why it's wrong. Inc--"

Fred slapped his hand across my mouth, the movement so fast he dropped his wand in the process, the light extinguishing. His face drawing closer to mine. "Don't say it, George." I nodded, and felt a warm wetness seeping down my cheek into his hand. He pulled a hankerchief out of his pocket and wiped at my face gently.

"I _love_ you, Fred...as a brother...and...you know...but...Mum...Dad..." I whimpered, rolling my head back against the wall of the wardrobe. Fred's hand found mine.

"George."

I curled my hand around his to show I was listening.

"Even though people say it's wrong, _you _don't believe it, do you?" I paused momentarily, waiting for Fred's words to make sense in my mind, then shook my head slowly. "We embrace every aspect of life while we have it, don't we? The joke shop we want, making money, each other..." There was a short silence. "We don't take the small moments for granted... we _live_ in those moments. Our moments. This moment, and all the other moments." Fred's free hand clawed around my waist and his fingertips pressed into my lower back. "Dream what you want to dream, right? Why should we let anyone else shape our thoughts, feelings and way of life? This is how we live, George. This is the way we _want _to live, you said that yourself. Who should say what's right or wrong? Who should get in the way of being alive, _our _way of life? Realise the amazing, George. Us. We're amazing."

My own hand found the back of his neck and I pulled myself towards him. "It's all crazy. We're crazy. Everything around us is going crazy.." I couldn't see Fred, but I knew he was grinning.

"Make the most of it," there was short movement, and Fred's mouth found mine, his arms tight around my torso, mine around his shoulders. We kissed urgently, desperately, like we were terrified we were going to lose the other if we let go. I don't think either of us breathed at all during the heat of the kiss, but it didn't matter. Even in the dark I could see the bright cerulean blue of Fred's eyes, right in mine, pools of seawater. The sea felt like a sign of freedom. But the freedom was locked away, viewable only behind barbed wire. Somewhere peaceful, somewhere distanced from the rest of the world, where we could be free to really live how we wanted to live, without the watchful and judgemental eye of our peers, was near the sea. Someplace sunny. Someplace _free_. Freedom was all we ever wanted, freedom was what we'd get. Eventually. We didn't speak, we didn't need to. Our legs and arms tangled together in a complicated jumble, tongues dancing for dominance in this battle, this war, this bid for the opportunity and privalege of delicious _freedom_.

Finally we broke apart, gasping for breath.

"Do you believe in the day you were born, George?" Fred asked me quietly, pushing a lock of hair out of my face. "Do you believe in yourself?"

I closed my eyes. "The day I was born is the day you were born. I believe in myself, because I believe in you." It was something Fred frequently asked me when he was sure I was doubting myself, doubting us. It was private, confidential. No one else would understand it. No one else would understand _us_.

I felt Fred's lips curve into a smile against my neck.

"They try to make our path," I muttered. "They want to draw it out for us, what we do, where we go, how we live our lives. All of them. Mum, Dad, even Prickhead Percy, and he's not even here."

"I know," Fred whispered back.

"If Mum knew, it'd kill her," I said.

"We won't tell her. We'll die as well if we did. We'd hate ourselves. We'd hate each other."

"We already _do_ hate each other."

There was another interlude of deathlike silence. I was right, of course. Fred knew I was right. He just didn't want to admit it. He didn't want to admit _any _of it. Wanted to pretend, to cheat love, to prove that we could love and desire who we wanted, decieve himself and his other half, me. Wanted to blame it on prejudice. Wanted to say that if gay people could have rights, so could we. But what we wanted was so wrong; so terribly, insufferably, horrifically wrong.

"So why does it feel so right?" I continued my train of thought aloud. Fred cottoned on.

"Because we want it to be right," he announced simply. He sounded hurt, his voice was thick with sorrow. I let my hand trail across his forearm, pushing up the knitted sleeve of his jumper. The need for comfort, for touch, for his _skin_ to taste minewas overtaking the receding, sane part of my brain. He responded by pressing his hands to my thighs gently, pushing my knees down and giving him room to press closer against me, his legs suddenly straddling my waist almost expertly. My eyelids fell closed as his tongue slithered across my neck, a hand tugging at the hem of my jumper, pulling it down and exposing my collarbone to his hungry mouth.

"Fred," I moaned. My voice seemed far away, like it was someone else who was saying his name. I hated the thought of that. If I hadn't of known that it _was _my voice speaking the word so erotically, I would've been seethingly jealous. I was seethingly jealous when Fred dated Angelina for that short-lived time. It took all I had to stop myself from screaming. Another reason why this felt right. Thinking of another person succumbing Fred's touch caused my blood to boil unnaturally.

Unnatural. It was so, so, so...unnatural.

My back arched into his touch as cool fingertips glided down my spine. Funny, I hadn't even noticed him take off my jumper. My brain had stopped commandeering my actions; my heart had taken over. Or maybe it wasn't my heart. Maybe it was just my reacting body. I realised this as I watched my own hands pulling Fred's sweatshirt over his head, my own hands sliding down his chest, my own hands dragging over his shoulders. He leaned forwards, careful to keep a distance between our shirtless torso's, his lips hovering inches away from mine, dangling what I could have, what I wanted, what I _needed _right in front of my desperate eyes.

It drove me crazy.

My spleen exploded with desire when he pressed his chest against mine. It was astounding. Breathtaking. Overwhelming. Skin on skin, sweat on sweat..._twin _on _twin_. I felt fireworks detonating behind my eyelids, buildings were collapsing, oil-tanks bursting, cars crashing, because I, George Weasley, had what I wanted. I wouldn't accept a thousand galleons to lose this beautifully monsterous feeling. Beautiful, monsterous. I felt juxtaposed with myself. Whichever word held a more meaningful synonym I'd never know.

And I didn't care.

My eyes, accustoming to the darkness, focused on his face, which was right in front of me. His perspirating forehead pressed against mine, his shivering hands cascading across my back, my stomach, my groin...

I clenched my teeth and copied his motions, my hands reflecting on him. _Reflecting_. Reflection. I was tampering with a mirror. It shouldn't feel so good, it shouldn't feel so _satisfactory_. His hot breath exhaled against the corner of my mouth, and I twisted my head to meet my tongue with his. He sucked in my bottom lip, and my fingernails dug into his shoulder blades. He groaned into my mouth appreciatively.

Then we lose all control. Not that we'd had a lot of it already, but it was control enough. Control to keep us from doing the inevitable, control to prevent us from finally going crazy. From letting loose, from giving up. We gave in.

I pushed Fred back, letting him fall, crashing into the side wall of the wardrobe. It made a huge bang; the whole family most certainly will of heard it, but we didn't care. My leg swung over him, pushing my weight down on him. Fred didn't show any sign of discomfort; he drew me in, his arms encircling my waist, pulling me down. My mouth covered every inch of his body, his hands finding each spot of mine. We were together. We were one. Fred was right, he'd always been right, I was just so reluctant to give in, to let what was wrong take over. Too much of a bad thing makes you mad, Mum once said. "Take Alistor Moody, for example," her voice rang in my ears as if she was stood right next to me. We had been ten when she gave the whole family this lecture, but it seemed like only yesterday. "He spent _years_ running after dark wizards and witches, _years_ trying to hunt down You-Know-Who! And look where it's driven him, completely barmy. In my opinion you should stick to what's good for you, and don't get a taste of the bad."

Mad, bad, or completely sad. If this was bad, bad was good.

I felt tears on my face. Was it me, or was it him? Maybe it was both of us. Were we crying because we were happy? Exhilarated? Pleased with ourselves? Or was it because we were so overwhelmed with emotions, fear of what we were doing, fear of where it would get us and what people would think of us? Frustration, were we pouring it into each other because we had no other way of explaining our messed up feelings? Rage, were we so completely furious with one another because we couldn't find a better solution, a better person to feel this...this affection for? Disgust? Everyone who spoke of...of _the word..._of _incest_....was disgusted. Were we disgusted? Shame? The shame we would bring our family if they ever found out? Guilt? _Remorse_? Were we feeling _sorry _for each other? We both felt the same, so did we just want to make the other happy? Was it pure lust, were we blinded by our hormonal and sexual desires that were quite literally filling us to the brim of potention breakdown? Were we _suffering_? Were we _hurt_? Were we grieving in depression and despair? Did we need the comfort of the closest person to our hearts, the item of sympathy we so desperately relied on? Or were we _content_? Were we _happy_? Were we so enthralled by what we were feeling that we were crying tears of joy, gratefullness, _love_?

His hand clenched in my hair, and my teeth sunk into the creamy skin of his shoulder. There would be a bruise in the morning, and Mum would ask questions. Dad would clap his hands, glad one of the twins had finally branched out to get a girlfriend. He was already convinced I was gay, as I'd never made the effort to date girls before, unlike Fred. Bill would tease him, Charlie would snigger, and Ron and Ginny would demand to know who the culprit was.

My hips ground into his and I sucked at the spot on his shoulder, relishing in the moans that escaped his kiss-swollen lips. I was making him feel like this. _Me_. His _twin_. But as much as I tried, it didn't make me feel sick. Fred writhed underneath me, his hands yanking at my hair, smoothing down the back of my neck. I loved him. I _loathed _him. How could someone, someone who I'd lived with my entire life make me feel so...so...

"Crazy..." I whimpered into his skin, my hands sliding down his chest, fumbling with his belt. Fred quivered with anticipation. He could hardly believe I was doing this, _I _could hardly believe I was doing this.

"Completely mental," he said after a moment, arching his back. It took me a while to realise he was replying to my spoken thoughts.

"Absolutely barmy," my tongue slid into the shell of his ear as I struggled with the buckle.

"Totally bonkers," his own hands were fingering the fly of my jeans.

I mewled at the ridiculously light touch. I was so aroused it hurt. "You shouldn't be able to get it up like that, you..." I couldn't find a suitable insult. Fred rolled his eyes.

"Stop thinking about what we _shouldn't_ do..." his fingertips slipped into the waistband of my jeans, his nails scraping the skin on my pelvis gently. My eyes fell closed, my heart pounded--

A sharp knock on the wardrobe door ended my thoughts abruptly, and Fred's too, as it seemed. He pulled his hands away from me like my skin had burnt him, and I did the same. We backed away from each other instantly, backs pressing against opposite ends of the cupboard, searching each others astounded faces frantically for answers as to who it could be. Who would _knock _on a wardrobe door rather than barge right in?

"Fred, George? I know you're in there!"

It was Ginny. She'd heard them. She could've been out there in her bedroom the entire time while we were screwing around in _her _wardrobe. Neither of us answered, our mouths just hung open identically.

"You're making those crazy Weasley Wheezes things again aren't you? The whole kitchen heard the explosion, whatever it was! I'm not coming in, last time I went in your...your..._hidey-hole_ when you were up to something my hair was green for a week. Just don't set my shoes on fire or something, please..." her footsteps repeated, and we both simultaneously released the horrified breaths which were captivated in our throats.

"That..." I started.

"...was...." he continued.

"..way too close," we both finished.

"It was pretty funny when her hair went green though," Fred muttered, crawling back towards me.

"Yeah, the more she washed it the greener it got," I shuffled back towards him, until our mouths met again.

We might not be right, wrong or justiced, but we had each other. And the closer to freedom we got, the brighter the spark of hope became.


End file.
